


The Shadows Grow Longer

by caitlinnlouwho



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types, Les Misérables - Schönberg/Boublil, Les Misérables - Victor Hugo
Genre: Angst, Blood, Canon Era, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Injury, M/M, On The Barricade, PTSD, Possessive Behavior, Survival, Triumvirate
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-08-20
Updated: 2014-08-19
Packaged: 2018-02-13 22:37:43
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 768
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2167773
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/caitlinnlouwho/pseuds/caitlinnlouwho
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Enjolras and Death are well acquainted.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Shadows Grow Longer

**Author's Note:**

> This fic is slightly inspired by the song 'Die Schatten werden länger' from the musical Elisabeth. You have been warned-- Death is a physically possessive creature so if that's not your cup of tea, I advise you to turn back now! Enjoy and feedback is always welcome!

Enjolras doesn’t notice the shot until it rips through his chest, sending him tumbling off the barricade and onto the cobblestones. His gun skids to a stop across the road, and he attempts to get up and crawl for it, ignoring Courfeyrac’s cries to stay back. He doesn’t make it far—the burning in what must be his heart (or maybe the rest of his chest, there’s a reason he has Combeferre and Joly) sees to that. He’s vaguely aware of two voices above him, and he stares, transfixed, at the sky as two dark shapes swim into view.

“He’s bad, Courfeyrac,” the taller one says, and he pushes his soot-stained glasses up his nose (so that has to be Combeferre, Enjolras’ brain supplies frantically).

Courfeyrac grimaces, blood streaming from a cut on his forehead. “We’ll just do what we have to, then.”

Combeferre nods, supporting one of Enjolras’ arms while Courfeyrac takes the other. “I am sorry, mon frère,” he says ruefully, and the two grit their teeth.

Enjolras screams as they lift him, fresh waves of pain exploding through his body, and he struggles to escape the blackness closing around his eyes. He hears his friends trying desperately to calm him, and he doesn’t understand why everything is on fire and why he can’t move. He whimpers and lets his head fall back, and focuses on the receding barricade as they move him into the café.

Courfeyrac has gone pale at the sound of his friend’s cries, and he tries to pretend that he’s not shaking as he hands Combeferre the bottle of alcohol.

“Can you--?” he asks, not wanting to finish the question for fear of receiving the answer he dreads.

“I hope to God,” Combeferre replies, and clasps Courfeyrac’s wrist. He rips off Enjolras’ bloodstained shirt, and probes at his chest. “We need to cauterize it. It’s the only way to stop the bleeding in order to remove the bullet. Quickly.”  

The hot iron hits Enjolras’ chest, and he screams himself hoarse as the blackness closes over him.

When he wakes, he’s alone in the street. His nostrils sting with the scent of gunpowder and blood, and he can see the barricade still standing proudly at the end of the alleyway. Under the streetlight, he can just make out a figure dressed in black, and he steps involuntarily towards it, stomach churning. The wind chills him, and he sees the glint of the figure’s eyes as he comes closer.

“Do you remember me, sweet one?” the shape purrs, and Enjolras’ blood freezes. “I met you when you were just a boy. Such a fighter, even then.”

“No,” Enjolras breathes, rooted to the spot.

“You said the same when I tried to take you so long ago,” Death says calmly, lips curling. “And yet, you call for me still.” He steps forward, eyes scanning the boy appraisingly. “Have you forgotten me?”

“I never forgot,” Enjolras replies, eyes wide and defiant. Death smiles crookedly, and runs a clammy hand through Enjolras’ hair, even as he tries to back away.

“Why else would I return to you? You need me,” he murmurs, lips ghosting against Enjolras’ temple as the boy sags in his grip, eyes glazing over. “Do you not want the world in your palm? You want control, I can see it in your soul.

“Do not think that I’ve forgotten all the times you begged me to assist you. To provide comfort. To act as your only friend. I know you best, mon ange. Did you really think that I would lead you astray?

“Did it not make you sick to see the injustice in this city?” Death asks, shoving Enjolras against the bricks. “Did I not more than once see you make yourself ill trying to save the people from themselves?” He drags a long, bony finger down Enjolras’ neck. “Take it for yourself. Defend it. For yourself and for the good of your precious country,” he whispers.

“Self-defense,” Enjolras repeats, staring trance-like at Death. “For myself and for my home.” 

“Very good. You’ve learned.”

Something flashes across Enjolras’ eyes, and he straightens up, glaring at Death. “You do not control me,” he growls, fists ready to attack. Death bares his teeth and laughs, snapping his fingers as Enjolras goes limp and pitches forward into his grip.

“Then what might this be?” he asks quietly.

Enjolras’ slack face does not respond.

Death smiles, and lets him fall to the ground. “Fear not, pet,” he says, sweeping a hand over Enjolras’ face. “You will have your day,” he mutters, and stalks away into the darkness.


End file.
